


The Adventure Of The Tramway Killing (The Matter Over Which Holmes Refused A Knighthood)

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [91]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, F/M, Inheritance, M/M, Murder, School, Slow Burn, Trains, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 07:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15813837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The disaster-prone Mr. Harry Buckingham returns to Sherlock's life, as this time the friend of his son suspects a murder is about to be committed. He is all too swiftly proven right – but can the great detective run down the killer and avoid a government scandal in the process?





	The Adventure Of The Tramway Killing (The Matter Over Which Holmes Refused A Knighthood)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_92/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

Whilst he was investigating the case later to be written up as _The Three Garridebs_ , my brother Sherlock received a most surprising visitor who needed his help with a case in which he feared someone might be about to be murdered. Sherlock, who was always too hard on himself over things like this, believed this case to be one of his failures and so did not wish it published, even though there was no way he could have prevented the murder. But then he was always hard on himself.

If a certain muscled behemoth in the vicinity makes any sort of innuendo about being hard, I shall.... not be happy!

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

It was late one evening when a gentleman called at Baker Street. A maid brought up his card and handed it to me.

“'Lord Hawke'”, I read out.

The name was not familiar to me, but as I have said before I was becoming skilled in reading my friend. He had definitely tensed at that name for some reason.

“Is there an address?” Holmes asked laconically.

“Hyacinth Square”, I said. “And one club, the Round Table. Do you know the fellow?”

He hesitated for some reason.

“It is rather a long story”, he said. “I will tell you later, rather than keep the gentleman waiting.”

I was intensely curious but put that aside as he had already rung to send our visitor up. Moments later, a fair-haired gentleman of about forty years was shown into our rooms. When I saw him I gasped.

“Lord above! You are _”Prime!”_

I could surely have not started off our meeting in a worse way. Our guest looked mortified and even Holmes chuckled. I had better explain.

We were of course Edwardians now and the new reign had seen a marked loosening of society's rules, especially as no lady (married or otherwise) was safe around our licentious new monarch. This new 'liberty' had been driven home to me at the start of the year when Holmes had taken me to see an exhibition by several artists and sculptors, all of whom worked in the Classical style. The newspapers had been full of the reaction to one particular piece of work called simply 'Prime', which was a statue of a naked man of forty years of age. And the sculptor had most definitely _not_ been short of clay, which meant that the gentleman before me was..... 

I belatedly noticed the looser than usual trousers. I was not in the least surprised, although a certain someone's pointed cough made me blush like a schoolgirl.

“I believe you knew my late brother Theobald, Mr. Holmes”, the gentleman said, seeming as embarrassed as I was by the encounter. “He once said that I might call on you for aid if the need arose. And the position that I find myself in is a difficult if not a dangerous one.”

I instinctively thought of the 'position' of that statue, which had hidden nothing. Lord, Mr. Sherrinford Holmes and Mr. Kean Hardland might kill to get someone like this gentleman on their books. And could _someone_ not smirk like that?

“I would of course be delighted to help you”, Holmes said courteously. “How may we be of assistance?”

The Adon.... gentleman sat down. I had thought when seeing that statue that it was not just the obvious that stuck out (in every sense!). This gentleman's eyes proclaimed his honesty; his gaze was steady and unwavering, and I was sure that he was as good within as without. Especially without....

“Just over twenty years ago I married my lovely wife Cassandra”, our visitor said, either unaware of my distraction or kind enough not to comment on it. “We have been blest with some six children, four boys and two girls. It is the youngest of the boys, Tobias, over whom I am concerned.”

“He is not in any danger?” Holmes asked quickly.

“He is not”, Lord Hawke said, “but a fellow schoolmate of his may be. Toby attends Aylesbury Grammar School – our house is in the nearby town of Wendover – and his friend is one Lion Black. An unusual name; he told me once that it was a family one. Lion's father Mr. Robert Black is the stationmaster at Westcott on the Brill Tramway in Buckinghamshire. You should also know that Mr. Black's elder brother is Lord Fenshaw, the government minister.”

That was important to know, I thought. Although the Conservative-Unionist government of Lord Salisbury was sat on a very comfortable majority, Lord Fenshaw was their representative who had several links to the 'Irish bloc' of members, who might make things difficult for them if they had wanted. And the government was increasingly unpopular just then; they had won the election two years earlier when the dreadful Boer War in South Africa had seemed all but over, but the thing was still winding down even now. The newspapers had been most critical.

“What is young Master Black's problem?” Holmes asked. The answer came as a shock.

“He believes that his father is about to murder his mother!”

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

“Lion is a decent lad”, our visitor said, “but painfully shy. Fortunately Toby can charm the birds from the trees, just like..... well, my poor uncle.”

Holmes blushed for some reason. This case was getting stranger and stranger. Our visitor produced a sheaf of papers from his pocket.

“Toby said that this should be all you need”, he said. “A map of the area where the Blacks live, descriptions of all the key people, and even the local history. Some of it I thought a bit off, but he has read all your stories in that magazine, doctor, and said that an investigator needed all the facts.”

“I shall soon have a most worthy rival, it seems”, Holmes smiled, looking through the papers. “This is indeed very useful.”

“I shall let you examine it”, our visitor said. “I am staying the night at the club so if you need clarification or anything you can send me a message there. Will you take the case?”

“This does seem as serious as your son's friend thinks”, Holmes said. “Yes, we shall most definitely investigate matters for him. It is always better to prevent a crime rather than sort out the mess after it has been committed.”

Sadly we were not fated to achieve that.

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

Once our visitor was gone Holmes was able to fill me in on his two previous encounters with the Hawke family, of which the first happened before we met and the second whilst I was in the United States, wooing poor Constance. The family did, I thought, seem to be far from fortunate although at least they had Holmes.

My friend clearly felt that the matter was urgent enough to go to Buckinghamshire as soon as possible, for we were at Marylebone Station for the first train of the day. As we rumbled through the northern suburbs of the metropolis and out into the Chiltern Hills, I read through Master Black's notes.

“This sounds like something a schoolboy might dream up”, I said. “I am not going to start believing in ghosts at my age!”

“I rather think that the foolish cyclist who, some three decades ago, tried and failed to cut in front of a heavy train is an integral part to this case”, he said.

“You think that Mrs. Black did see a ghost?” I asked. The lady had reportedly seen a cyclist waiting at the level-crossing on four occasions when there had not been a train due, but on her going out to check had found nothing.

“I think it statistically unlikely, given the excellent layout drawing her son provided, that she would have always have seen the cyclist from an _upstairs_ window”, Holmes said. “There are five downstairs windows that afford a similar view, yet she was always in a place where she had to first descend the stairs, allowing the person she saw time to get away.”

“You think that someone is trying to frighten her to death?” I asked dubiously.

“That is a means of killing very popular with certain poor-quality writers of fiction”, he said airily, “but it is most inefficient. However, as with the recent case of Judge Abrahams it can be used as a cover for a more efficient attempt on someone's life. I note that Mr. Black was in the cottage on all four occasions and actually with his wife on two of them, yet failed to see the cyclist. He could therefore have provided a warning, especially as in his son's most carefully chosen words his mother is 'a large lady who finds it difficult to manage the stairs quickly'.”

“A politician in the making!” I smiled. “I take it that this Mrs. Birkin is the motive?”

“The widow woman who lives with the son from her first marriage, and whose name has been associated with that of Mr. Black by village gossip”, Holmes said distastefully. “Such gossip is cruel, but too often accurate. And the potential stepson would be able to play the part of the cyclist, although I shall need to visit Westcott and see how it was all done before challenging them all.”

I carried on reading through the notes – the boy had really been most thorough – until we reached Aylesbury, where we took a carriage to the Grammar School. However, on presenting ourselves at the school office we were told that Master Black was not there.

“Such a tragedy!” the secretary sniffed. “The poor boy's mama was killed this very morning, and he was summoned home.”

“Killed?” I said, shocked. “How, pray?”

“Run over by a train, they said.”

Holmes and I looked silently at each other. 

“Who came for the boy, may I ask?” he said.

“A nobleman called Lord Hawke, whose son is his friend”, she said. “I understand that they took the poor lady to Waddesdon Police Station.”

“Thank you, ma'am”, Holmes said, before we hurried away.

My heart sank. We had come too late.

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

We took a carriage on to the village of Waddesdon, where we found the sergeant in charge of the small local police station looking overwhelmed.

“This is not what I signed on for!” he sighed once we had introduced ourselves. “I've had those men at each other's throats all morning, and I had to threaten to lock one of them in the cells to cool down so he would go away. And the other a toff on top of it all!”

“Sergeant Tompkins”, Holmes said calmingly. “My name is Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and this is my friend and colleague Doctor John Watson.”

The man's eyes widened. I could well imagine that he had just mentally downgraded his day from 'could not get any worse' to 'yes it could'.

“You think there is foul play here?” he gasped.

“First, who are the two gentlemen who you had such trouble with?” Holmes asked gently.

“Mr. Robert Black, the victim's husband, and Lord Kitebrook – Mr. Henry Buckingham, Lord Hawke's eldest”, he said. “Mr. Black insisted that it was his wife's wish that she be cremated, but Mr. Buckingham – his brother is a friend of the victim's son - was just as firm that there should be an examination first. Mr. Black has returned to Westcott to fetch his late wife's will; he says that she most clearly stated her last wishes in that document.”

“When is he due back?” Holmes asked. The sergeant checked his watch.

“Not for best part of an hour, I'd reckon”, he said. “He left less than quarter of an hour since; my ears have only just stopped ringing!”

“Would it be acceptable for the doctor to perform a quick examination?” Holmes asked. “I know that it is irregular, but it is only fair to warn you that there is a strong suspicion this was no accident and that Mr. Black himself may be a guilty party.”

The sergeant somehow managed to turn even paler. 

“Go right ahead gentlemen”, he said. “But if Mr. Black returns you'll have to hop it it out the back way, otherwise it'll be my neck on the line!”

Holmes smiled and we were ushered through to a cold, empty room at the back of the station where the body of the late Mrs. Black lay on a long table. _Post mortems_ were not my area of expertise but I had done more than most doctors, and I quickly got to work.

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

Twenty minutes later Mr. Black had still not returned and Holmes, the sergeant and I were sat round a table in another room. 

“Death occurred sometime between the hours of five and seven this morning”, I said. “I cannot be more accurate than that, I am afraid, although I would incline to later rather than earlier in that time frame.”

“What time is the first train?” Holmes asked.

The sergeant had a timetable to hand. 

“Through Westcott there is one at five to seven”, he said. “Trains on the line are hardly ever on time but that one would have been because it connects for London. At that time in these parts it would have been dark but with some dawn-light.”

“Cause of death?” Holmes asked. 

“I cannot be sure”, I admitted. “Clearly from the damage to the body she was struck by a heavy object not moving particularly fast. It _could_ have been a slow-moving train. I think it possible that the body was moved subsequent to death, because of the lividity.”

“From the what?” the sergeant asked, confused.

“Blood settles after death”, I explained. “The state of the skin suggests that the impact most likely occurred _after_ the blood had begun to settle. And there is the possibility that she was smothered.”

The sergeant took a long drink of his tea, glaring at it as if he felt that he needed something stronger.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

“There is some discolouration around the lips”, I said, “more than I would have expected. But I am sorry. I cannot be certain.”

“That may be enough”, Holmes said. “Sergeant, do you know where Mr. Buckingham went?”

“I believe that he is staying at the vicarage in Westcott”, the sergeant said. “The vicar there is a friend of his father, Lord Hawke.”

“Then we must adjourn there with all speed”, Holmes said. “Sergeant, you must not release that body, regardless of any document that Mr. Black can provide. If – when he asks, tell him that the body can be released only when the will has been certified by a police lawyer, and you cannot get one down here until tomorrow.”

We left in a hurry.

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

Westcott turned out to be a charming little village, less than a mile from the main road between Aylesbury and Bicester yet in a world of its own. It was stretched out along a single street except for the church and a smattering of houses along its solitary side-road. The tramway cut across the main road a little way south of the village, with only the stationmaster's house anywhere near it. It was a typical English village scene, marred only by the heavy grey leaden skies that threatened more snow to add to the light covering that had not yet melted. 

I noted that Holmes visibly baulked when we were introduced to Lord Hawke's eldest son Mr. Henry Buckingham, Lord Kitebrook. The young fellow was about twenty years of age and had been fortunate enough to inherit his father's looks (and from the fact he had three children already from his marriage, probably certain other 'attributes'!). 

“Father said that he was going to bring you in”, he sighed. “I am only sorry that it was not sooner. Poor Lion is resting upstairs now; after all the to-do I felt that he needed some rest; I have told the school that Toby and he will be taking some time away for all this. That dastardly so-called father of his has doubtless returned to the police station to demand that his wife be cremated, so that he can hide the evidence.”

“You think him to be guilty?” Holmes asked.

“I am sure of it!” the man said. “But there is no proof.”

“Then we may have to indulge in a little breaking and entering”, Holmes said. “Let us hope that the sergeant indulges my request and keeps Mr. Black busy.”

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

We walked down to the tramway station, the only incident occurring when a large woman and a young man very pointedly stared at us all as we passed them on the other side of the road.

“Mrs. and Master Birkin”, Mr. Buckingham explained. “They know that we are aware of their evil game.”

The lady scowled at us even though she almost certainly had no idea who we were. We passed on and were soon at the station which was a decidedly mean affair. Not even a platform as such, just a gravelled area with a name-board, a rudimentary waiting-shelter and a storage hut by the crossing. Holmes seemed particularly interested in the latter for some reason. 

“At least I have solved the mystery of how the 'ghost' disappeared”, he said, much to my surprise.

“How?” I asked.

He gestured to the back of the small shed and I noted that the lock on the building had been used and was in good condition. Holmes pointed to the floor. 

“Cycle tyre impressions”, he said. “And at least one complete footprint of someone who wears those fashionable yet uncomfortable square-toed boots, which we all saw young Master Birkin wearing in the street.”

“So he _was_ the ghost!” Mr. Buckingham exclaimed. “The bastard!”

“That connects _him_ to the crime but not Mr. Black”, Holmes said as we walked over to the station house. “We shall search outside, but I fear that we may have to break in for what we seek”

“What are we looking for?” Mr. Buckingham asked.

“A piece of cloth, anything from the size of a flannel upwards”, Holmes said. “I fear that it may have been burnt, but if do find it then do not on any account touch it. It is important evidence.”

We nodded and the three of us set about searching the property grounds.

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

As Holmes had suspected we did not find what he was looking for, and after ten minutes he decided to break into the house, which he managed with his usual (and worrying) ease. Once inside he split us up to cover more ground, and it was only five minutes later before Mr. Buckingham called from the kitchen. We hurried to meet him and found him staring at a drawer from which something made of cloth protruded. Holmes carefully opened the drawer, then using a pair of washing-tongs extracted what turned out to be a scarf. He held it out to me.

“Don't touch, just sniff”, he ordered.

I did, and promptly reeled backwards.

“Chloroform!” I managed once my head had cleared. “A powerful dose, to still be so strong hours on from when it must have been used.”

“We need to get out of here”, Holmes said. He found a paper bag from another drawer and dropped the scarf into it, then ushered us out of the house before turning to Mr. Buckingham.”

“Sir”, he said flatly, “I know now that Mr. Black murdered his wife, and I know how it was done. And above all, I can prove it. Would you care to accompany us to Waddesdon Police Station so that we can confront the villain?”

The nobleman smiled.

“Sir, I would be honoured!” he said.

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

We arrived back at the police station to find that Mr. Black gone, although the sergeant assured us we would not have to wait long for his return.

“He spoke the truth about his wife's wish to be cremated”, the policeman said ruefully, “but I still didn't release him the body. So he went to telegraph his lawyer to come and have a go at me.”

“A good lawyer may well be what he needs”, Holmes smiled. “We shall wait.”

Another hour passed and Mr. Black arrived back at the police station with his lawyer, a most unpleasant-looking fellow called Mr. Amadeus Jukes. It was a tight fit getting six grown men into the interview room, but we just managed it.

“Sergeant”, Mr. Jukes began in a nasally voice that reminded me immediately of a railway station announcer, “I demand that you release my client's late wife to him so that he may respect her final wishes.”

“Whilst the sergeant would normally comply with such a request”, Holmes said smoothly, “there are certain difficulties that prevent his acting in this case.”

The lawyer looked down his overly long nose at him.

“And what might those be?” he demanded archly.

“That your client killed his wife, and is attempting to have her cremated in order to hide the evidence.”

There was a stunned silence in the room before Mr. Black spoke harshly.

“There are laws of libel and slander in this country, Mr. Holmes”, he ground out. “And my brother is not someone the likes of you should annoy, sirrah.”

“The laws of libel and slander only apply if the statement is untrue”, Holmes said. “You murdered your wife - _and I can prove it!”_

Another silence, which this time was broken by Holmes himself.

“You had decided to rid yourself of your wife so that you could marry Mrs. Birkin, who is quite wealthy in her own right”, he said. “You began by trying to unnerve your target by having Mrs. Birkin's son dress as the ghost of a man killed on the nearby tramway crossing.”

“Poppycock!” Mr. Black snorted. Holmes smiled.

“Young Mr. Birkin was able to disappear by waiting until he knew he was being watched – always from the upstairs rooms and always with you in a position to send a warning – then carrying his bicycle to the storage shed and hiding himself and it inside until Mrs. Black had gone away. But he was careless. He left a footprint which matches the distinctive square-toed boots he wears, and there were also cycle marks in the area where he rested the bike whilst opening the door.”

The man had gone rather red.

“Your son went to a friend who called me in on the case”, Holmes said. “I do not know how, but you became aware of that fact and decided to act before I could stop you. You were also fortunate in your wife's request for cremation, which you expected would hide the evidence of your misdeeds.”

Even the nasal lawyer was looking nervous now.

“At sometime around six this morning”, Holmes said, “Master Birkin came to the house. You had concocted an excuse to rise early and let him in. You then went upstairs and chloroformed your wife. That was where you made your major mistake. You threw the cloth that you used in the kitchen drawer.”

Holmes drew the bag containing the cloth out of his pocket and placed it on the table. Mr. Black seemed to sag even further.

“I do not know exactly what you did next”, Holmes admitted. “I would conjecture that you and Master Birkin carried your wife's limp body out of the house and threw it up against the single wagon that is in the siding at the station. You then suffocated her, hoping that her death would look like she had wandered out to investigate the 'ghost' and that she, too, had been struck by a passing train.”

“No proof”, the man growled. “A few marks on the ground and an old rag? So what?”

Holmes leant forward.

“You are seemingly unaware”, he almost purred, “that even if they are unconscious at the time, the suffocation of a person by closing off their airway leads to a strong probability that a piece of cloth will get caught in their throat?”

The man stared at him for what seemed like an eternity, then slumped in his chair. 

“You wait!” he snarled. “I'll get off. You'll see!”

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

“I do not remember seeing any cloth fragments in the dead lady's airways”, I observed as we left the station that day.

“There were none”, he said dryly. I stared at him in shock.

“But you said they were there!” I insisted.

“No”, he replied. “What I actually said was they were there in most cases. I can hardly be blamed for Mr. Black's assuming the worst, can I now?”

The devious bastard!

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mr. Black's belief in the elasticity of the British justice system was misplaced. He was duly convicted for the murder of his wife and hung before the year was out. It was not the evidence that did for him, little enough as it was, but the decision of Master Birkin when he realized that his own neck might be on the line to turn on his mother and her lover. It spared his own miserable neck, but he still qualified for spending a couple of decades at Her Majesty's pleasure for his part in the foul deed. His scheming mother was jailed for three years as an accomplice, after which she 'repaid' her son's treachery by emigrating to parts unknown and leaving him behind. 

Lord Salisbury's government was horrified that Lord Fenshaw's brother could have behaved in such a manner, and Holmes' discretion in smoothing over matters actually led to his being offered a knighthood for this and certain other services rendered. He refused, saying that he had no time for baubles, but did request that a generous sum be laid aside for poor young Master Lion Black, who was now an orphan as his uncle had said he wanted nothing to do with him (an act of cruelty which, fittingly, ended his political career when the newspapers found out about it). Lord Hawke took the boy into his own home where he grew up to be a fine young gentleman.

Holmes later explained that his only bad moment in the case had been on meeting young Mr. Henry Buckingham for the first time, as that gentleman was the image of the original Lord Toby Hawke.

۩۩۩۩E♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
